


What a Very Nice Fire

by Callmesalticidae



Series: There is Nothing to Fear [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Hogwarts House Sorting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gryffindor Tom Riddle, House Elves, I spent far too long researching old time fancy dinner traditions, Malfoy Family-centric (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24209323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callmesalticidae/pseuds/Callmesalticidae
Summary: The Malfoys love each other dearly. There is nothing to fear. (1980)
Relationships: Andromeda Black Tonks/Ted Tonks, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Series: There is Nothing to Fear [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1087368
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	What a Very Nice Fire

> When one burns one’s bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.
> 
> Dylan Thomas

Narcissa was not the last of the Blacks, not exactly. Only Regulus was actually dead, but Sirius and Andromeda had both been disowned years ago, and if Bellatrix were not now muttering to herself in Azkaban then she would be gibbering at St. Mungo’s instead, so a pardon for her crimes, even if it could be arranged, would have done nothing but given comfort to her cruciatus-addled mind. The war against the Death Eaters had taken much from everyone, but the pain was acutely severe for Narcissa. One day it would come to a close, and if she could not secure some measure of clemency for Andromeda, to say nothing of Sirius, then she would be the sole survivor of her generation and, once Aunt Walburga died, the last of her line. She was pregnant, true, but that child would be born a Malfoy, not a Black.

These meetings did nothing but force her to confront that again and again, as though she were picking at an infected wound. “Café au lait, Dumbledore?” she inquired, while her personal house-elf, Tookey, stood ready with a silver jug of tea. “It’s cut with the crop milk of a Welsh Green,” she explained while Tookey filled his cup with umber tea. “I find that the admixture promotes good digestion.” Narcissa had needed to take it for that reason more than once recently, now that morning sickness was rearing its ugly head.

“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said, and Narcissa shifted in her seat as she tried to not let it show how the name stung. It was nothing against Lucius or her father-in-law, of course, but if it was painful to think that she would be the last Black, it was ever more bitter to admit that she was, in some ways, no longer a Black at all. A technicality, maybe, but she hated to think how her family name was doomed to die.

Blood was sacred, as Lucius and Narcissa had both been taught, but family was sacrosanct. The living owed a debt to the dead, who had lived for their sake, and that debt could only be redeemed by paying it forward to future generations. The name of Black meant something, and the absence of the name would be the loss of something was dear to her. Maybe, if they had another child after this one was born, Lucius would agree to bestow her maiden name upon it, but that was a discussion for another day. This meeting was for something else than Narcissa’s troubles, no matter how easily it roused them up in her.

“The goblins are thirsting for our blood,” said Abraxas Malfoy, and Lucius nodded in agreement, so slightly that it might well have been unconscious. Narcissa and Dumbledore both respected the senior Malfoy, but Lucius adored him. “Whatever else may be said of these present days, it seems that we are destined to see another goblin rebellion.”

“Then let us draw them away from Tom Riddle,” Dumbledore replied. “With your sway over the Wizengamot and my own influence combined, we would be able to enact legislation that could address their concerns. Abraxas, there are some members of his coalition whose anger cannot be assuaged so simply, but the goblins want war no more than you and I do. If we approach them now, I do not believe that they will escalate their demands, and it is probable that we may get them to settle for less.”

“How much less, Dumbledore? What is it that you propose we give to them?”

“I think that a seat on the Wizengamot would be entirely reasonable, Abraxas,” stated Dumbledore, his tone so easygoing that one might have been forgiven for thinking that he hadn’t realized what kind of blasphemy had passed his lips. In own his seat, Lucius stirred, and Narcissa surreptitiously placed a hand on his knee. The two of them were here not to act but to observe, so that Lucius might learn the ways of his father and Narcissa might learn to assist him.

“The Wizengamot,” said Abraxas. “Do you genuinely expect me to permit a goblin of all things to sit amongst witches and wizards in judgment over other witches and wizards, when nonhumans have heretofore been banned from even entering that hallowed chamber? Will you next propose that I betrothe my unborn grandchild to one of their kind? It is bad enough that my vaults must be in their care. Do not think to ask me to do the same with our laws, or you will soon find that we do not have a country at all.”

“If you will not negotiate with the goblins then war seems inevitable. I cannot reach an accord with the goblins on my own, especially not if your bloc directly opposes my efforts.”

Abraxas shrugged. “Then let us go to war with them,” he said. “I do not remember exactly how it was that Grindelwald’s War was ended, and perhaps you could correct if I am wrong, but I seem to recall that it involved a duel and not some kind of settlement. There was no talk of appeasement for Grindelwald, so why then should there be any for the goblins?”

“Grindelwald did not have his fingers wrapped around the throat of your finances,” Dumbledore said. “Surely I should not have to point out that your family’s vault stands in jeopardy.”

“They wouldn’t dare!” Lucius exclaimed. Abraxas turned to him with fury in his expression and Lucius, cowed, quieted and sank into his seat. Narcissa gestured to Tookey to refill his tea, and took another sip of her own. It wouldn’t do to lose herself.

“Please forgive the interruption of my son. He is young and has forgotten himself,” Abraxas said with ice in his voice. “Nevertheless, I too find it unlikely that they would do such a thing. The treasures of Gringotts have always been treated as inviolable. The goblins may bar access to our vaults for a time, but they will not commit trespass. If they ever did so, the whole country would be united in driving them out of Britain, no matter the consequences, and the goblins know this.”

“Such a deterrent exists only if the goblin nation believes in the possibility of defeat.”

“The advantage is ours. I said that we may expect another rebellion, but Britain has always survived those little skirmishes.” Narcissa thought that might be speaking rather lightly of them, if she remembered her history lessons correctly and they had not been exaggerated, but perhaps they looked different to one who had fought Grindelwald face to face.

“An alliance between goblins and werewolves was sufficient to make Basil Flack resign as Minister for Magic in 1752,” Dumbledore recounted. “The threat which we face today is ever more dire.”

Beside her, Lucius adjusted his posture, and Narcissa shifted ever so slightly in his direction. “Occlumency,” she whispered beneath her breath, too softly for anyone but her husband to hear, and Lucius placed a hand over hers. Narcissa was a better occlumens that he was, one had to admit, but he was still capable of setting his emotions aside when the hour called for it, even if he was not particularly quick to do so of his own accord.

“I believe in our capacity to rise to the occasion,” Abraxas said. “I do not welcome open war with the goblins, but neither was I cheered to hear news of Grindelwald. Nevertheless, as I did then, so will I now accept war as the price that must be paid for our future. I will not see my grandchild come of age in a world that is worse than the one which I was gifted with. It may be too much to ask for the latter half of my life to be unmarred by strife, but if I must make war in my day so that my grandchild can know lifelong peace, then so be it.”

“And you do not see how there is a road by which we might avoid war altogether?”

“I will fight for his dignity and his freedom as well,” Abraxas answered. “As will, I suspect, many of my peers both on and outside the Wizengamot.”

Dumbledore’s eyes turned to the tea in his hands. He took a slow breath, as if about to say something, then stopped and returned his gaze to Abraxas. He nodded sadly, then set the tea aside. “If your course is set then I will not impose on you further. Good day, Lord Malfoy,” he said, and then, turning to Narcissa and her husband, “Thank you for your hospitality—and for the tea, Mrs. Malfoy. And Mr. Malfoy,’ he continued, now addressing Lucius, “I look forward to working with you in the coming year.”

Abraxas followed Dumbledore outside and their conversation turned to a minor tax that the Wizengamot was squabbling over, as though they had never spoken of goblins and rebellions at all..

As soon as they were out of earshot, Narcissa patted Lucius’ knee with her free hand. “Lucius, treasure, you must hold onto yourself.”

His mouth twitched, and no doubt he wanted to say something in his defense, but despite his wrong turns he always arrived at the right destination at long last, and in the end all that he said was, “How do you control yourself so effortlessly? I wouldn’t have noticed you myself if you hadn’t been sitting next to me.”

Narcissa smiled. “Some people say that children are meant to be seen and not heard. My father didn’t want them to be seen, either.” She and her sisters had been a great disappointment to Cygnus Black III, who looked to her cousins Sirius and Regulus with envy, and if she ever felt misgivings about joining Lucius’ family and losing her name, it was at least partly made up by the knowledge that, while they doubtlessly hoped for a son, both Abraxas and Lucius would nevertheless welcome a daughter as well.

Abraxas returned moments later. His eyes lingered on Lucius, as if he were debating whether to castigate him further, but if so then he refrained from the worst of it. “One day, Lucius, you will be the Lord Malfoy. The title will sit heavy on your shoulders, but not nearly as heavy as the clamps which we must set on our tongues.” He paused, and the silence of the manor settled in around them. “You disagree with how I am treating Dumbledore,” Abraxas said, and then, “You may speak freely now, seeing as he has left.”

“He shouldn’t be able to speak to you like that, not in your own home,” Lucius replied, and Narcissa wondered how Lucius had perceived the discussion and what slights he had seen, or thought he had seen. She loved him dearly, but her husband’s pride was so awfully sensitive.

“If at times Dumbledore dispenses with the formalities and refers to me by my first name, as though we were friends, or overlooks other fine points of etiquette, then he has earned that right. You know him as an older gentleman who seeks to frustrate my political designs, and who occasionally leads me to yell at odd bits of furniture after a meeting at the Wizengamot, but I knew him as a warrior before I knew him as a politician.”

“He certainly took his time deciding whether to fight Grindelwald. What can he do that you can’t? Maybe the war would have taken longer, three or four years more, but Grindelwald was on the back foot when they fought. You could have done it, and if Grindelwald, then why not Riddle?”

Narcissa sighed internally, but Abraxas only chuckled. “When I fought Grindelwald at Juno Beach, I held him at bay for only five minutes. Now, if you want to praise me for that then you can do so, and I will prize it more than my Order of Merlin, but do not confuse that with having had the ability to defeat him one-on-one. I might have held him off on my own, but he was only pushed back by weight of numbers. Do not mistake me for a wizard of Dumbledore’s magical genius, however flattered I might be by the comparison.”

Lucius nodded submissively, but Abraxas continued. “As well, you must not forget that Dumbledore is the Headmaster of Hogwarts. The deeds of your forebears and mine were sufficient to net a seat on a Wizengamot and, later, a seat on the Board of Governors, and my deeds have thus far been sufficient to maintain these gains, but it is only now, circumstances being what they are, that I was able to obtain for you a position at Hogwarts—and from there, who knows but that you might one day be Headmaster yourself. You will have decades in which to realize that possibility, but it does require that you extend a modicum of leniency to Dumbledore.”

Lucius bowed his head. “I understand, father.”

Abraxas smiled warmly, and they proceeded to speak of different matters, and all seemed to be in order. That night, Abraxas played his violin for long enough that Narcissa could still hear the notes wafting through the halls of Malfoy Manor when she fell asleep. For the next few days Narcissa spent her mornings supervising the house-elves in the garden. Lucius was still tinkering with old Slughorn’s curriculum in order to tailor it to himself, and Narcissa alternated between giving him company, allowing him space, and drawing him out of his work and back into the world when required. Almost a week after Dumbledore had left, there was even talk of a visit from Lucius’ mother—she was not quite separated from Abraxas, which after all would have been quite the scandal, but Galatee certainly spent the majority of her time with her immediate family in Brussels, enough so that her return home really could be called nothing else but a visit.

Their world fell apart only a couple of days before Galatee Malfoy was due to arrive. It was late in the afternoon, and Narcissa was feeling lazy, so she was relaxing by the parlor’s fire while Lucius read to her out of the Song of Magnificestoile. Narcissa couldn’t understand a lick of it, really, not knowing any Middle French herself, but that wasn’t the point at all. Then the hearth flared and turned green and Barty Crouch’s son came tumbling out of it.

Lucius nearly cursed him on the spot, but Narcissa slapped a hand against his and stalled him long enough for Crouch to spit out his message. “Dragon! In muggle London! Dumbledore thought you ought to know,” he said, and then coughed up a bit of ash and fainted on the spot. While Narcissa tried to enervate Crouch, which ended up doing nothing, Lucius summoned a house-elf to find his father, but he had only just finished the command when Abraxas entered the room, his face harried and his hand clutching a small pyramid that whirred and flashed. He seemed intent on heading to the floo himself when he noticed Crouch laying on the floor and paused.

“Dumbledore sent him,” Narcissa explained. “There’s a dragon running amok in London, by the sound of it.”

Abraxas glanced down at the pyramid and stowed it away in a vest pocket, then called for Gibby. “Fetch me my fireproof robes,” he ordered, and she disapparated in almost the same moment that she arrived.

“Father, you can’t go. It’s a trap. You have to know that it’s a trap. A dragon amok in London doesn’t just happen,” Lucius exclaimed. Abraxas lifted his arm, and for a second Narcissa thought that he was going to strike Lucius, but he only put a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“I have to, Lucius. Diagon and the other alleys are at risk, if nothing else,” Abraxas said, then Gibby appeared and he began to don his robes. “Nearly the entire city died the last time a dragon was in London. The Wizengamot itself is in danger, if the fire is out of control, and there will be salamanders and ashwinders to add to the crisis before too long.”

“Let Dumbledore handle it, if he was good enough for Grindelwald.”

“Fighting a dragon can be as much a matter of luck as skill. And, as you say, this is almost certainly a trap. Dumbledore will need all the assistance that he can get.” Lucius seemed ready to continue his protestations, but Abraxas shook his head and continued. “Do not worry for me. While this half-blood whelp was taking his O.W.L.s, I was waging war against the Dark Lord of Berlin.”

“Then let me go with you,” Lucius said.

“I can account for myself, Lucius, but you are another matter entirely. Fighting a loose dragon is no business for the young.”

Lucius closed his eyes and nodded, and clasped his father’s hand in farewell. Abraxas departed through the floo with a call of “The Ministry!” and then Narcissa levitated Crouch Jr. onto the couch while her husband summoned various potions. A few, he managed to get down Crouch’s throat, but the majority of them were meant for later, if the worst were to happen and word came that Abraxas had been terribly injured.

“It isn’t that I distrust the medi-witches.” Lucius said, well aware that one of Narcissa’s friends from Hogwarts had ended up working at St. Mungo’s. “I am sure that they are generally competent. Potions can simply be more efficacious when they are tailored for the patient, and if time is of the essence then it would be better for the necessary potions to be ready immediately.”

Narcissa adjusted herself on one of the cushions that Lucius had summoned up, and smiled softly at him. “You’re fretting, my treasure.” She turned to Crouch Jr., whose place on the couch was the reason for their own relocation to cushions, so that they could remain near the hearth without moving him away. He had only moved a little since Abraxas left. “Are you sure that Crouch is alright?”

“Now who’s fretting? He should be fine. If there really is a dragon in London, he might have inhaled all manner of fumes, even some of those muggle gasses that they use to power their conveyances.” Not for the first time that evening, Lucius stole a glance at the grandfather clock on the opposite wall. “It’s been nearly an hour,” he whispered.

“Hush. There will be a mopping-up after they’re done. You aren’t eleven anymore,” Narcissa said, hoping that she sounded more confident than she felt. What she said was true, but a dragon was not to be taken lightly.

There was a knock on the door. The sound resonated through the manor, and Lucius took off like a lightning bolt before the house elves had a chance to announce who was at the door. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t Abraxas. It couldn’t be, for he wouldn’t have had to knock, and if it wasn’t Abraxas then the news could only be terrible.

By the time that Narcissa caught up to her husband, he had already opened the door. Standing there at the threshold was Dumbledore, in torn and burnt robes, missing more than half of his beard, and favoring his left leg in a way that was hard to overlook. “No,” she whispered, too shaken to contain her reaction. Floating behind him, and concealed beneath a long white cloth, was the shape of a body that could only be Abraxas’.

“It should have been you,” Lucius said, his tone flat in the way of one who had managed to remember to suppress his emotions, but had learned occlumency long ago and was never more than competent. Even so, the mere statement of the fact appeared enough to make Dumbledore look ashamed, and he looked away from Lucius’ dead and disbelieving gaze. “I will understand if you wish to take a leave of absence this—”

“Get out,” Lucius snarled, no longer caring—or perhaps able—to conceal what he is feeling. “Did you think that you would be rid of me that easily? Let my father die, and then encourage me to delay my arrival, and perhaps after that resign in favor of whichever substitute you chose to take my place? Get out. You will see me at the High Table this September. You will see me there every September. I will be there when you are dead.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “I am sorry for your loss, Lord and Lady Malfoy.” The title stung Narcissa, and she could tell by the grave expression on his face that her husband was hurt far worse by it. Lucius’ fingers clenched at the edge of the door, as though he were ready to slam it in Dumbledore’s face and was only barely restraining himself from doing so. Lucius managed to remain still until Dumbledore disapparated but then, before Narcissa could lay a hand upon his shoulder, he let his weight fall upon the door and slowly slid against it to the ground.

Narcissa sat herself directly behind him, her back against his, and took one of his hands in hers. Eventually, Lucius found his voice: “There will have to be a funeral, and soon, if I am to be present for the Sorting Ceremony. A month is hardly enough time but it will have to be sufficient.”

“Lucius, my treasure, you can afford to miss a few days, or even take a leave of absence in the middle of term,” Narcissa said, but she felt Lucius’s body shift against hers in a way that suggested he had shaken his head.

“Father thinks—Father th-thought that I was capable of the position and he expected my performance to be flawless. His plans depended on it. What would they say about me if I went missing for this? I would probably remain a professor, but Dumbledore would whisper that I am undependable and too unreliable to ever be made Head of Slytherin House. My father put me at the High Table so that I could, one day, take a place of influence in Hogwarts. Over Slytherin House, if not the school itself. To ruin those plans for the sake of a funeral would dishonor my father more than honor him.”

“It will be forty years before Septima Vector retires. That is a long time for someone to remember a slight.”

“Dumbledore will only be looking for an excuse, especially now that he does not need...my father’s assistance.”

Soopy, another of the house elves, appeared that moment to inform them that Crouch Jr. was finally beginning to stir, and Narcissa departed to attend to him while Lucius saw to his father’s remains. By the time that Narcissa had seen Crouch Jr. off through the floo and returned, Lucius had retreated elsewhere in the manor and it was left to her to receive a pair of owls. One had come to deliver the evening edition of The Daily Prophet, which unsurprisingly was most concerned with the day’s events; the other was from Dumbledore, apparently attempting to salvage the situation with a recounting of the crisis as he had experienced it, and his sorrow over Abraxas’ passing. Narcissa considered burning the letter, but settled for handing it off to Tookey to put wherever they stored those trifles and gimcracks which the Malfoys had no immediate use for, but likewise did not wish to dispose of. It might prove useful someday, somehow, and Narcissa would not let a moment’s fury rob them of that.

Narcissa told Soopy to convey a deep and abiding desire to see her husband, and he obediently appeared for dinner. The house elves had tactfully remembered to set out places for only two people at the table and apparently changed the night’s plans in favor of a smaller and less extravagant meal with only three courses. Narcissa had been too distracted to order an alteration and she appreciated the initiative. Perhaps she’d give them permission to glean a little extra from the currant bushes for themselves.

The salad was humble and meatless, as befit the day’s tragedy: only carrots, mushrooms, and asparagus, all diced or cut into long, thin strips.

“Condolences will have to be sent out,” Narcissa said after they had eaten in silence for a few minutes. “Most of the casualties were muggle or at least did not belong to any of the old families, but there were some. Tiberius Ogden, Martin Gamp… Algernon Longbottom, Harfang Longbottom’s brother, may not make it through the night.” Narcissa paused, and considered the far-reaching, distracted look on her husband’s face. “Are you doubting that Dumbledore will win the war, Lucius? He may be old, but he is not yet ancient.”

“I find myself wondering if Dumbledore could have defeated Grindelwald had he not let people like my father thrown themselves against him for years beforehand, if he had not confronted Grindelwald while he himself was hale and the latter had been ground down by years of ceaseless fighting, and I think that one day Dumbledore will run out of people to sacrifice in his stead,” Lucius answered.

There was a possibility, and it was a good one, that Narcissa could talk him out of this line of thought. It was a little more paranoid than she felt comfortable with. Abraxas had never been one to blindly worship the heroism of his political opponents, so if Dumbledore’s accomplishments were valid in the eyes of one who had fought in those battles then that was good enough for Narcissa. That didn’t necessarily mean that the rest of his thought process was untrue, though: Dumbledore might well lose, and even if he didn’t there was no guarantee that death would not come to Malfoy Manor again before the war ended. With the death of his greatest rival in the Wizengamot (after Riddle, anyway), one could not even be sure that he would not specifically target families like their own when it was necessary to pick rams for the sacrifice.

What was left for them to do in the face of that?

“The war is over for us,” Lucius eventually said, as if his thoughts had been following the same track as her own. “If we had been better prepared then maybe the transition would have been smoother, but my word will not carry the same weight as my father’s. Some of our allies will fall into Dumbledore’s camp, and we will no longer be equal powers.”

“We would do well to take a neutral position,” Narcissa said, “except that we would lose even more support by doing so, and all but guarantee that the balance of power in the Wizengamot would shift in Riddle’s favor. They will not be friendly to us, not after we first opposed and then refused to assist them.”

They were silent for a long while after that.

“My father thought that he could beat Riddle without Dumbledore’s support, but it was also important to win quickly. Riddle, unless he wants to rule over ash and dirt, will think likewise,” Lucius said as the house elves were bringing out the main course, a tomato stew with clams, fish, and shrimp. “But that would destroy us just as well. We represent everything that Riddle opposes.”

“Perhaps. Her pure blood hasn’t troubled my sister, however.”

“Andromeda married a mudblood and was disowned for it,” Lucius replied. “She’s hardly our mirror image.”

“No, but perhaps we could receive...assurances. It wouldn’t hurt us to just explore our options, and I’m sure that Andromeda would do her best to verify the promises that are offered to us.”

“What if that doesn’t work? If we’re found out then we lose even more. I wouldn’t put it past Dumbledore to be monitoring the floo network, and that’s if she even has a floo.”

“Andromeda is my sister, and you are my husband. It would not be out of the question for us to extend her an invitation to your father’s funeral. We could exchange a few words then, as everyone would expect us to do.”

“Then let us extend her an invitation.” Lucius fell silent and his eyes turned away, as though he were thinking of something, and after a moment Narcissa believed she knew what it was.

“Yes, my treasure, I’m afraid that we will have to extend the invitation to her husband as well. His presence would not be improper, and if we barred him then we would bar ourselves from Andromeda. Besides, I do not think she will bring him,” Narcissa added, and Lucius’ face brightened.

The owls went out, preparations were made, and the funeral commenced twenty-five days later. The Malfoys had been of good French stock, and even continued to send their children to Beauxbatons off and on for a few centuries after they followed the Normans into England, but they had always held more tightly to the old ways than to the Church, and some of those traditions had trickled through the ages.

Abraxas had been laid down on a levitating marble slab. The services of a master transfigurer from the Continent had been employed to restore his appearance, and an iron band in the semblance of a snake had been fitted around his upper arm. Besides this, and a set of his finest robes, there were no adornments or grave goods. Gold was meant for the present generation to use on behalf of future generations, and it was most likely that the dead neither knew nor cared. Or so Lucius had been taught, at any rate. As a small child, Narcissa had been put to bed with the threat that her thrice-great grandfather Aries Black would eat her alive if she didn’t fall asleep quickly, and there were worse things in store for somebody who disgraced the family. Most of the old families had some sort of cult, practices that they were expected to observe and pass down whether or not they were grounded in sincere belief anymore.

Lucius spoke first, but his role in this stage was formal and he mostly followed the same script which Abraxas would have used many years ago. He was followed by his mother, who described her husband in positive terms and, contrary to Lucius’ fears, did not restrict herself to the bare minimum that society expected of her, something that would have clearly signaled discontent. Neither his widow nor his child, Narcissa had no part to play in the proceedings, but when Lucius lifted his wand to set his father’s corpse alight, she stood there beside him and his other hand was curled in hers.

At twenty-six and twenty-five, respectively, neither Lucius nor Narcissa were quite children, but neither could Lucius have expected to shoulder great responsibilities for many decades more. Their own child, and perhaps even grandchildren, should have been old enough to speak for Abraxas, and they ought to have had many fond memories to share. That was the way that it was supposed to go. Grindelwald’s War had pruned many family trees, and Abraxas himself had become paterfamilias at a young age, after his father died to poison and his elder brother to muggle firebombs, but Lucius had still been raised with the expectation that he wouldn’t be given the reins of authority until he was fifty years old at least. Even then, Abraxas would have only been ninety and might have remained to advise Lucius for thirty or forty years more, at which point Lucius might have taken that role in order to make way for his own son. Lucius had been brought into those meetings with Dumbledore in order to observe, not so that he could take up where his father had left off.

Now, though, however young he might have been, it was necessary for Lucius to take on all of the responsibilities that were the lot of a family head. The fortunes of the Malfoy name, and the continuation of that name itself, now rested upon himself and Narcissa. More directly, too, the fate of their growing child depended upon the two of them. Propriety might demand that his mother stay in Britain for awhile, but she had never cared for this country and had nether taste nor talent for British politics. Probably as soon as her grandchild was able to walk, Galatee would return to her relatives in Brussels, and Narcissa couldn’t find it in herself to complain about that, not when the Blacks preferred to foist as much as possible of the child-rearing process onto their house elves.

“I should go now,” Narcissa whispered as the flames grew higher, and she detached herself from Lucius and went in search of Andromeda. Between winding through the crowd and attempting to appear as though she weren’t searching for anyone, it took a quarter-hour to find and reach Andromeda, who, Narcissa was disappointed to see, had in fact brought her husband. Well, Lucius would just have to deal with it.

“Cissy,” Andromeda said with a cheer that only barely reached her eyes.

“Meda,” she replied, before glancing away to make sure that no one was taking undue interest in this encounter. “May I speak with you alone?”

Andromeda looked to her husband, and then to her daughter, then nodded and let Narcissa cut her away from the gathering. “Are you unsafe?” she asked, and Narcissa had to stifle a spike of shock before she saw Andromeda briefly turn her eyes down to the fire, where Lucius would have been.

“Oh, oh, you have nothing to—that’s not—Meda, don’t be silly. Lucius loves me.” Narcissa said. “But you are right that I am...concerned. We want to reconsider our political alliances.”

Andromeda looked ashen, then looked away. “Cissy, that’s, oh, I don’t know. It’s good, it’s unexpected.” She bit her lip. “How? No, that’s silly, that’s why you’re talking to me. Okay.” Andromeda nodded as if to reassure herself. “It isn’t as if I have tea with Wizengamot members every Saturday, you know. Our options might be limited.”

“Are you in touch with Sirius, though?”

“Yes.” Andromeda frowned. “I can talk to him, get him to talk with Riddle, get something worked out. And you, you’re really defecting?”

“It isn’t safe for us, not after Abraxas has died, and, oh, Meda, it wouldn’t be safe for you, if Dumbledore won. Maybe Riddle will lose in the end. Maybe Lucius and I can save ourselves, and our child. But what would become of you?”

Tears glistened in her sister’s eyes. “Cissy, you do care.”

“I never stopped. Even if you made some, some decisions that I…” Narcissa faltered over the words as Andromeda glared at her. “I never stopped. Please, to save yourselves, if not us.”

Andromeda’s appearance grew fierce. “You’ll be safe with us. I swear it.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Song of Magnificestoile is a chanson de geste, or epic poem, in the style of The Song of Roland, but it is concerned with wizards and is only known in the magical community.
> 
> The term “Dark Lord of Berlin” comes from [The Accidental Animagus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14078862/chapters/32436069) by White_Squirrel.
> 
> “Grindelwald’s War” is also known as the “global wizarding war.” Some witches and wizards participated in the Great War, but their actions were perceived more as supporting the muggle conflict than fighting a war which was related to but nevertheless distinct from the one that the muggles were involved in.
> 
> The idea that Lucius Malfoy’s mother came from Brussels, and returned there at some point after Lucius grew up, comes from [The Never-Ending Road](https://archiveofourown.org/works/536450/chapters/952621) by laventadorn.
> 
> My notes for this are too long, so [go here](https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/there-is-nothing-to-fear-harry-potter-au-gryffindor-voldemort.667057/page-5#post-53374096) if you want to get read Too Much about wizarding lifespans, the Hogwarts board of governors, and the Wizengamot.


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